


Pear-Shaped

by smarshtastic



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wing Grooming, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 12:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19273024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: The Notpocalypse had been surprisingly devoid of corporeal injury for him - less so for certain angels who shall remain nameless. It seems particularly unfair that now, in a time of relative normalcy, Crowley would get himself hurt.---Crowley gets hurt and he goes to the only person he knows who can help him.





	Pear-Shaped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabrega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/gifts).



> Hello it's me again with some wingfic bc I heard there was a dearth of it?? Seems like we ought to have more wingfic. 
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/smarshtastic), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/mcreyes), and [tumblr](https://wictorwictor.tumblr.com/) ♥

In spite of his occupation, Crowley had managed to avoid bodily harm for hundreds, if not _thousands_ of years. He’s managed to avoid being fully discorporated for even longer. It’s not that he necessarily avoids getting his hands dirty, it’s more the case that he is quite good at getting others to do his bidding. That’s what that whole tempting business is about, after all. 

This time is different, though, and Crowley is wounded. 

One would think that, being a demon, Crowley would be used to pain, but he is woefully out of practice. The Notpocalypse had been surprisingly devoid of corporeal injury for him - less so for certain angels who shall remain nameless. It seems particularly unfair that now, in a time of relative normalcy, Crowley would get himself hurt. 

Crowley limps from the graveyard, keeping to the shadows as best as he can. He’s having a difficult time maintaining the illusion of his human form and he can’t risk being spotted like this. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two, so he has time, theoretically. 

Unless he succumbs to his injuries, which wouldn’t really be the worst thing at the moment. 

Normally, Crowley would just miracle himself to safety but he doesn’t have the energy for it. He left the Bentley at home under the assumption that this was going to be a quick temptation - in and out, nothing too complicated. The whole thing had gone pear-shaped and now Crowley finds himself examining a bus schedule to get him back into the city. 

Crowley sinks onto the bench under the bus shelter and closes his eyes to take stock of his injuries. His sunglasses are gone. He has a wound on his head that won’t stop bleeding. He noticed he was limping. The real issue, though, is that one of his wings is badly damaged - broken, maybe, and sagging behind him. When he tries to move it, his whole body spasms with the effort. It’s a pain that is driving Crowley to distraction, even though he keeps trying to drag his focus back to his primary concern of getting to safety. 

Also, his suit is ripped to shreds, which just adds insult to injury. 

The bus isn’t scheduled to arrive for another twenty minutes or so, given the lateness (or earliness) of the hour. Crowley attempts a small miracle to make the bus appear faster, but the effort nearly causes him to pass out. He slumps down in his seat, blinking rapidly to clear black spots that threaten to take over his vision. 

_Aziraphale_ , he thinks. Aziraphale would know what to do, if only he can manage to get to him. 

Crowley blinks, suddenly remembering the miracles of modern technology. He pats his pockets but his mobile is gone - dropped somewhere in the graveyard, most likely. This time he doesn’t attempt a miracle. Crowley resigns himself to waiting. He wonders if Aziraphale can hear him if he thinks his name hard enough. 

Crowley is generally very good at denial. He’s excellent at ignoring things he doesn’t want to see and imagining things that he does. But the pain that’s radiating through his body is making it extraordinarily difficult to focus. It would’ve been better if he had actually been fully discorporated, frankly. This is almost unbearable. 

He repeats Aziraphale’s name in his head over and over, on the off chance that Aziraphale might notice, but also just to keep his mind focused on _something_ that isn’t how much he hurts. 

Of course, the bus is late. Crowley mumbles a string of swears under his breath at the driver as he hauls himself up onto the bus. The driver barely glances at him, which is probably a blessing. Crowley drops into the first available seat and lets his head rest against the window. He struggles to keep his eyes open as the bus lurches into central London. 

Finally, _finally_ , the bus pulls to a stop near Aziraphale’s block and Crowley half-stumbles, half-falls off the bus. The trek from the bus stop feels insurmountable, but Crowley keeps putting one foot in front of the other until he finds himself at the door to the bookshop. Crowley leans against the door and bangs on the glass as hard as he can manage. It feels like an age before the door opens. Crowley stumbles forward and into Aziraphale’s arms. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims. “You’re hurt!” 

“Hello, angel,” Crowley mumbles. He feels himself get dragged into the shop and hears the door close behind him. 

“What in heaven’s name happened to you?” Aziraphale asks. The obvious note of worry in his voice sends a pang through Crowley’s chest. 

“Long story,” Crowley says. “Actually, no. Stupid story. Didn’t know where to go.” 

“Were you followed?” 

“No, took care of ‘em,” Crowley says. He realizes that Aziraphale is practically carrying him up the stairs to the flat over the shop. His cheek is pressed up against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The sensation is a pleasant distraction from the pain. His grip on the illusion of his human form is slipping. 

“You’re bleeding,” Aziraphale says as he pulls Crowley into the flat. He steadies Crowley on his feet, holding him at arm’s length to get a good look at him. Crowley wobbles on the spot and then finally lets his human form drop away entirely - it’s a relief to let his wings unfurl, even though the injured one feels impossibly heavy. Aziraphale lets out a soft _oh_ and his face does something that Crowley doesn’t have words to describe. 

“Your wing -” 

“I know.” 

“Let’s get you to bed.” 

Crowley doesn’t protest as Aziraphale gathers him in his arms again. It would be ridiculous under normal circumstances, to be carried like some kind of damsel in distress, but Crowley can’t really bring himself to care. He’s too wrung out, and the stairs were hard enough already. Besides, he likes the way that Aziraphale has him cradled close to his chest. 

Aziraphale’s bed is, predictably, a monstrosity of human indulgence; it’s piled high with soft creamy white pillows and blankets to match. Crowley is fairly sure he sees lace edging. When Aziraphale sets Crowley down, he sinks face down into the downy nest with a rather pleasant weightless feeling. 

“Going to get demon blood everywhere,” Crowley mutters, mostly muffled by the blankets as they swell up around him. Somewhere overhead, Aziraphale tsks. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. Crowley knows how much of a fuss Aziraphale makes whenever he sees even the smallest spot, however, and makes a mental note to remind him when all is said and done. He hears footsteps retreating and lets his eyes close. 

The next thing he knows, firm but gentle hands are moving Crowley this way and that, stripping his torn and bloodied clothes away from his body. He tries to protest but Aziraphale shushes him so Crowley goes limp and allows himself to be undressed. Finally, Aziraphale tucks a soft blanket over his waist. Crowley exhales. Perhaps he can rest now. Just as Crowley is beginning to drift off, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s wing. 

Crowley cries out. 

“I’m sorry -” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can practically hear him wringing his hands. “It needs to be cleaned, at the very least.” 

“Just - be gentle,” Crowley says through gritted teeth. 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Aziraphale gets to work. It’s still painful but Crowley can tell that Aziraphale is trying his damnedest to be careful. He straightens out Crowley’s damaged wing slowly. Crowley digs his fingers into the blankets and he bites back the cry that rises in his throat. Wings are sensitive even under the best of circumstances, but every ruffled feather seems to be a bundle of raw, bleeding nerves at the moment. Somewhere above him, Aziraphale makes a small, distressed sound. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again, as if it’s his fault Crowley is in this predicament in the first place. Crowley presses his face deeper into the blankets. “It’s broken.” 

As Crowley suspected. 

“I can… I _should_... ” Aziraphale says, then trails off. Crowley nods without lifting his head; he trusts him. He feels Aziraphale’s hands on his wing again. He braces himself. With a sharp, precise twist of his hands, Aziraphale snaps the bone back into place. Crowley blacks out. 

When he comes to, Aziraphale is fussing. Crowley bats at him half-heartedly but finds that his hands just twitch at his sides. His whole body feels stiff and sore, too heavy, although the pain has receded somewhat. He lifts his head. 

“Oh - you’re awake,” Aziraphale says. The relief is clear on his face, though his brow is still furrowed. “I was worried.” 

“I thought for a moment you’d smote me. Smited. Had smoten?” 

Aziraphale looks shocked, and perhaps a little hurt. “I would never.” 

Crowley puts his head back down so he doesn’t have to look at Aziraphale’s face. 

“I know.” 

Aziraphale huffs and resumes what he had been doing - which is, apparently, dabbing gently at Crowley’s back and wing joints with a warm, damp washcloth. It actually feels quite nice. It’s been a long time since any other being had touched his wings, and, now that the pain has subsided, he can almost enjoy the sensation. Crowley exhales. 

“How do you feel?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Tired.” 

“Just rest then.” 

Crowley nods against the pillow, letting his eyes close again. 

“Angel?” he says. 

“Yes?” 

“Thanks.” 

Crowley drifts off to sleep again, lulled by the light touches of Aziraphale’s hands on his back. He wonders if he imagines Aziraphale’s fingers dipping into his feathers or if it’s just wishful thinking. 

The next time Crowley wakes, there’s a weight beside him, a warmth enveloping him - close, but not quite touching. Crowley turns his head to find Aziraphale lying on the bed next to him, apparently dozing. He is surprised to see Aziraphale’s wing draped over him, almost protectively. Crowley shifts and Aziraphale blinks his eyes open, his face unbearably soft. 

“Did I wake you?” Aziraphale asks anxiously. Crowley shakes his head. He shifts again, rolling slightly onto his side and managing to pin one of his wings underneath him. He winces. Aziraphale quickly sits up and rolls him back. “Careful, Crowley.” 

“It’s alright - I’m alright,” Crowley says. 

“No need to overexert yourself, then,” Aziraphale says. He smooths a hand over Crowley’s wings. It sends a shudder down his spine. Aziraphale draws his hand away as if he’s been burned. “Does that still hurt?” 

“No,” Crowley says. He looks at Aziraphale, wondering how he can possibly ask for him to touch his wings again without sounding like a complete idiot. Aziraphale searches Crowley’s face with his wide eyes. Slowly, he lowers his hand back onto Crowley’s wings, his touch ever so light. 

“It’s healing well,” Aziraphale says, his finger tracing a path from Crowley’s shoulder to the dip in the joint. “I, ah, may have performed a small miracle to help it along. You were in quite a lot of pain…” 

“It feels good,” Crowley says, his eyes still on Aziraphale’s face. He watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“Well,” Aziraphale says. “That’s very good news.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Aziraphale starts to take his hand away but Crowley makes a small noise. 

“Don’t stop.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t move for an impossibly long moment. Then, he lowers his hand again and, more purposefully this time, strokes his fingers down the length of Crowley’s wing. Crowley shudders and presses his face back into the pillows. This time, Aziraphale doesn’t stop. He keeps his touch light, even as he gets his fingers between Crowley’s feathers. He’s still healing, oversensitive, but Aziraphale’s hands are steady and they feel almost heavenly. 

Crowley shifts around on the bed until he’s managed to drape himself across Aziraphale’s lap, his cheek smushed against his thigh. 

“Keep - still that,” Crowley says. 

“Why, Crowley, I didn’t think you were so -” 

“Shhh,” Crowley interrupts. “I’m healing here.” 

Aziraphale goes quiet, but his hand keeps moving gently along Crowley’s wings. Crowley can imagine that soft, pleased look on Aziraphale’s face without looking up. He has to bury his own face into Aziraphale’s thigh to keep from going completely gooey himself. 

Crowley isn’t sure how long he stays like that, face down in Aziraphale’s lap, allowing himself to be pet like a kitten. At some point Aziraphale starts humming something off-key but Crowley is so blissed out that even Aziraphale’s lack of musical ability doesn’t bother him. He drifts off to sleep again, thinking that heaven is all bollocks compared to this. 

The next time Crowley wakes, he finds himself wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms and wings. Aziraphale had his nose pressed to the back of Crowley’s neck. Crowley can feel his slow, even breaths stirring the short hairs there. Without moving his head, Crowley can see the great white wing that’s draped over his body, covering him almost completely. 

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asks. He feels Aziraphale stir behind him, tension returning to his limbs. He begins to pull his wing back, away. Crowley reaches out to stop him. Aziraphale sucks in a breath. Crowley eases himself over, careful of Aziraphale’s wing and his own, to face him. Aziraphale still has his wing draped over him, a cocoon of white feathers, warm and safe. 

“Ah. How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Much better,” Crowley says. Aziraphale nods. 

“That’s very good to hear.” 

“Thank you,” Crowley says. He can see the color starting to creep into Aziraphale’s cheeks. 

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Aziraphale says. “You would do the same for me.” 

Crowley blinks, slightly taken aback. “You sound so sure of that,” he says. 

Aziraphale blinks back at him. 

“Well you would, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale asks. His eyes have gone round and wide, unblinking as he looks at Crowley so earnestly. 

Crowley feels that pang in his chest again. 

“I suppose I would,” Crowley says. 

“I suppose if it wasn’t _inconvenient_ -” Aziraphale starts to say but Crowley cuts him off, closing the gap between them so he can press his mouth clumsily to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale makes a small surprised noise against his lips but then, after a moment, he’s kissing Crowley back. 

“You’re a terrible influence,” Crowley says when he finally pulls away enough to speak. 

“Are you quite certain you didn’t hit your head?” Aziraphale asks a bit breathlessly. 

“No,” Crowley admits. “But I know I certainly want to do that again.” 

And he does, especially once he sees the pleased flush that spreads over Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale, still mindful of Crowley’s healing wing, wraps him up in his own wings and kisses him back quite enthusiastically. 


End file.
